


That's Not an Apology (That's Attempted Murder)

by Averia



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Apologies, Billy Hargrove Being an Asshole, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Steve Harrington Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-04
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-11-12 00:26:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18000299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Averia/pseuds/Averia
Summary: Steve leans back, arms crossing over his chest. He hates sitting while Hargrove is standing, the disadvantage makes his body tense and the tiny scar on his forehead itches -I can't see anything, Steven. You've always been so dramatic."I don't regret carving your face in, pretty boy," Hargrove makes it known, lips pulling into a grin - sly as if he cannot help himself - and his tongue sticks out to rub against his lower lip. It's mocking and unhinged.Five times Billy is utterly incompetend when approaching Steve and that one time he says what he actually means - because circumstances.





	That's Not an Apology (That's Attempted Murder)

It's too cold to sit outside. In the middle of January - right after winter break - the weather of Hawkins tries to remind every student, that lounging in front of a heater or a carmine would be the right thing to do. Despite that, Steve settles down at his favorite spring spot right after second period, where he knows the chilly wind won't touch him - courtesy of the strong red brick wall of the cafeteria at his back. His butt is still trying to freeze to the bench, though, and he stares down at his food tray with a frown, toying with the green apple.

A sigh escapes him.

He could - should - be sitting inside with Nancy and Jonathan or the better half of his basketball team, maybe even the senior girls who have taken a whole new and different liking to him since he _handles his break up with Nancy so well, is such a sweet older brother to that adorable middle school kid - Oh Steve, you are so mature!_

Steve frowns. His popularity is shifting this and that way, his plans too, and his feelings follow suit. Some days he can look at Nance-- _Nancy_ and Jonathan with a big grin, other times he feels stuck at the Snowball, from the outside looking in.

The apple comes to a stop under his fingertip when a cigarette is put out on his tray, crumbling and withering under the strength of two tan fingers, nails cut so short it makes Steve wince in pain. His gaze rises towards Billy Hargrove's face. Smoke is billowing out of his mouth and his nose. The longer the white tendrils curl up around his face, the more dramatic it seems, the transition between smoke and white breath invisible.

He looks like a monster with those too blue, too wide eyes, but not the kind Steve is familiar with, more like he imagines D&D describing dragons. Dustin would probably tell him he is wrong, but his makeshift little brother isn't here to berate him right now.

Steve leans back, arms crossing over his chest. He hates sitting while Hargrove is standing, the disadvantage makes his body tense and the tiny scar on his forehead itches - _I can't see anything, Steven. You've always been so dramatic._

"I don't regret carving your face in, pretty boy," Hargrove makes it known, lips pulling into a grin - sly as if he cannot help himself - and his tongue sticks out to rub against his lower lip. It's mocking and unhinged. Steve's jaw tenses.

He follows the downward motion of Hargrove's hand with his gaze, watches him take a crunching bite out of the green apple. The blue eyes stare right back, a little bit wider, a little bit fanatic. Steve's fingertips press into his biceps. He takes a breath, tries not to imagine how easily Hargrove might be able to grab him and smash his head back against the wall.

His chin is tilted forward, nearly pressing into his chest. Before he can ask Hargrove what the fuck he really wants, the other boy beats him to it.

"I don't. So don't expect an apology from me, yeah?"

The apple stays in Hargrove's face like a barrier and Steve watches him swagger away with it, back into the cafeteria to gather his posse. He leans against the cold stone and hopes to god, that it will ease his headache.

It doesn't.

He misses another three days of school while he is down with a cold, nose not quite running and making his headache worse. In his nightmares the tunnels are endless. They start at the junkyard, the Earth giving underneath his feet and when he hits the ground Hargrove is leaning over him, apple in his mouth, juices flowing down onto Steve's cheeks. The Demogorgon stands behind him, slowly unfurling its big flowery mouth.

Steve screams.

* * *

"Are you getting enough sleep, Steve?" Nancy whispers her question even though the noise of the cafeteria alone is enough to keep prying ears from hearing their delicate conversation of monsters and trauma, no high schooler should have any knowledge of - and neither a bunch of middle schoolers.

"Yeah," he replies, nudging his pudding in Jonathan's direction when he notices his hungry gaze. Jonathan has a sweet tooth only outdone by Eleven herself, he has learned that much since starting to hang out with the whole monster hunting group far more often than he thinks is healthy.

They still don't talk a lot, but Steve has always been better with non-verbal cues, has shared his things with others since he was young - _such a good only child, knows how to share_ \- and Jonathan speaks more through gestures than anything else. Steve can deal with that. A little bit. Granted, it has become harder for him to trust his instincts after Nancy's and his... _bullshit_.

"It's getting better," he speaks on, knowing Nancy won't leave it alone otherwise. Jonathan crams the first spoon into his mouth, hoping to be kept out of the conversation. Steve frowns at him, thinks of his mother telling him to take small bites and be poised and _don't take too much_ , while his father stares him down, brown eyes pitch black in disapproval.

Steve pinches the back of his nose, eyes squeezing shut and elbows hitting the table.

"Just leave it for today."

Nancy isn't happy, her mouth twisted up when Steve opens his eyes again, and he is just about to squeeze her wrist in thankful reassurance when his tray clatters, his muscles tensing up and his fingers flinching closed around a blurry green round shape. The bitten apple feels sticky against his palm.

Slowly his gaze rises to Hargrove.

"Good catch, Harrington," Hargrove sneers, tongue flicking out, licking the corner of his mouth as if he can still taste the juices there, "Wish you were that good on the court."

"You kept that all week, Hargrove?" Steve asks, voice dark and head tilting back lazily.

It earns him a feral smile.

"Maybe," Hargrove answers, sauntering off to the doors. Tommy claps him on the back and Brian punches his shoulder, their laughter echoing through the cafeteria. He catches Carol's eyes when she looks up from re-applying her make-up and the little shrug she involuntarily gives nearly makes him smile.

"You're not going to eat that, are you?" Nancy hisses, her voice making him turn around.

Steve looks at it, twirls it underneath his finger and then bites a chunk off from the opposite end. It's fresh and crisp and sweet. So unlike the foul taste and smell the tunnels were filled with and so unlike the coppery taste of his own blood.

Spring doesn't feel so far out of reach anymore.

* * *

"Mr. Stewards hates me, Nancy," he hisses underneath his breath, staring at the large red _F-_ on his paper. He filled some pages in, he can't be that bad at English.  
Nancy opens her mouth, then it twists, and then she just looks sheepish. He glares at her, crumbling the paper and pushing it somewhere to the back of his locker out of sight, ready to never see it again. Who the fuck needs Othello anyway?

"You'll be fine, this was just a quick check on our progress. You can learn with Jonathan and me for the test or, you know, you could ask Becky. She is in your class, right? I know she's been trying to get to know you better."

Steve heaves a sigh.

"She has," he admits at the knowing look, and goes lax when Nancy squeezes his shoulder.

"Just," Nancy gestures with her hand in front of his chest, "try?"

He gives a noncommittal noise but it seems to be enough because Nancy turns with a quiet 'until later' before she bounds down the corridor and Steve bites the inside of his cheek, gaze stuck to her retreating tiny back. Becky isn't like Nancy. Becky has black hair and powerful shoulders, the perfect addition to the swimming team. She is nice, but Steve has trouble seeing anyone as more than that ever since his tendency to pretend kicked him in the ass. All the people not involved with the Upside Down are shadows, flickering in and out at the edge of his vision. _Steven? Steven, are you even listening to me?!_

An arm is haphazardly thrown around his shoulders. His muscles tense up in an instant and his mouth twists, when he smells the familiar cheap cologne and cigarette smoke. _Hargrove_.

"Still hung up on the bitch?"

Steve side-eyes him, shrugs the arm off.

"She isn't a bitch, asshole."

"Whatever, pretty boy," Hargrove replies, all sharp smile, and up in his space as if the blond has never heard of personal space before. Then he swaggers down the corridor as well, into the same direction Nancy disappeared to.

Steve glares after him, arms crossing over his chest and teeth baring. He's going to stink of that toxic cocktail of cigarette smoke and cologne all day.

Steve meets the curious, but worried green eyes of a girl across the corridor. No matter how short their interactions are, it seems as if half the school still expects to see bruises appear on his skin even though no one ever confirmed who beat him to a bloody pulp. He smiles when she starts to blush and winks just before he disappears down the corridor as well.

* * *

He doesn't end up going out with Becky or even the green-eyed girl, instead he is approached by Clara. Her brown eyes are like honey in the sun and her brown hair shimmers with a hint of red. She's been in Hawkins for a few years, hangs out with a crowd Tommy would call boring.

"I have two younger brothers. They can be so rough with each other, and they tend to give me a headache when I have to look after them on my parents' date night. I honestly can't imagine how you do it."

She looks at him as if he is prince charming, and he smiles back, a little bit strained. _Oh, you know, they and I have met men-eating monsters more than once, that's probably why they don't feel the need to beat each other up. Also, have I mentioned that they are nerds?_

"Dustin is a good kid," he says instead and it seems to satisfy her for now.

"Do your parents go on date night?"

"More like date weeks," Steve jokes, already munching on a fry when the waitress places Clara's order down in front of her. His cheeseburger is dripping with the melted cheese, just how he likes it since he turned nine.

"I hope you don't have to take care of that house alone. That has to suck."

Steve blinks, "Uh, oh... um, I only use four rooms, so it's fine."

Clara looks at him as if she knows that it's not fine, but not with the instant pity that Nancy always showed when they walked into the quiet of his perfectly orchestrated interior, more like a bunny that just found out something interesting, nose twitching and all that. It's kind of cute and Steve doesn't really know how to react.

"You're going to College?"

"Yeah. I hope to get an admission for Indianapolis."

Steve hums, listening to her chatter and reminding her to bite into her by now undoubtedly cold hamburger from time to time. He feels stranger the bigger her plans get. She knows what she is going to do three years from now and Steve, Steve has trouble making up his mind about what he is going to do the next week. He thought he had what she has now, and then he lost it some time before Nancy and then with Nancy, he thought he would be happy anyway but now?

Clara never gets to ask about his future plans when, in the middle of her story, Hargrove flops down next to her. Arm snaking over the back of her seat and legs spreading under the table, one foot knocking against his. Before any of them can say something, Hargrove already has her coke on his lips.

Clara stares at him, mouth open. Her eye twitches as if she is going to slap him.

"What do you want, Hargrove?" Steve asks, cringing in sympathy when Hargrove places the coke back. Clara stares at it in disgust.

"Your fries," Hargrove responds, licking his lips.

Steve scowls at him. He could fight this, maybe he should. Still, he pushes them towards him, nose crinkling when Hargrove scarfs them down. Clara faintly excuses herself to the bathroom.

"You're a pig, Hargrove," he hisses, when Hargrove's hands disappear under the table to wipe his greasy hands off on his tight jeans - _Use a napkin, Son. You are not a caveman. Not some_ _trash from Old Cherry Road._

"Can't all be as fancy as you, your majesty."

Steve rolls his eyes, looks past him at Clara, who is standing in front of the bathroom door, looking unsure. Steve pushes his coke at Hargrove.

"Get out."

"You don't get to tell me what to do," Hargrove hisses back, words like a loud slap in the diner as his relaxed posture changes, lips pulling up into a snarl. Steve knows how this ended last time, can see that look in Hargrove's eyes that made him choke on nothing for days.

Then, Hargrove takes the drink anyway.

"Get out," he repeats. If he sounds a little breathless neither of them acknowledge it.

Hargrove gets up, leers at Clara and just when she sits down with a relieved smile, Hargrove shouts:

"Don't dick her down too hard, Stevie boy. The girl still needs to walk tomorrow."

* * *

Steve pours beer down his throat, lets the beat thrum through his body and dances his heart out with Becky. When he takes a refill Becky is exchanged for Rosalie, the green-eyed girl and some time after he ends up on the couch, laughing when both of them restyle his hair with mischievous eyes and too much sticky alcohol tripping from their hands.

Cheers wash over to them from the keg stand and soon enough Hargrove's roars are heard over the music. Steve rolls his eyes and Becky snorts beside him, "Guy should be diving with the club if he can hold his breath for that long."

Probably, but Steve doubts that Hargrove has ever done anything that productive in his life.

He refills his cup with some type of red punch - cherry, maybe - and when he turns his nightmarish little dream stands in front of him, hair limp and greasy. Blue eyes regard him with a glassy look and it takes Steve too long to realize that Hargrove is swaying.

Steve takes a sip from his plastic cup, nearly hitting the other's chin with it.

"Break'n your own record, Hargrove?"

The boy leers.

"'s not as if ther's any compo...tit'n," Hargrove decides, tongue too numb to form words properly. A sticky hand drags over Steve's face, fingers faintly curling against his cheek before a palm presses to his mouth to push him back.

Steve makes a face, Hargrove chuckling and wheezing like a child. He pushes back against the exposed glittering chest, back of his hand furiously wiping off the gross mixture of cheap beer, saliva and sweat.

"You're fuck'n gross, Hargrove."

"Yeah, well," Hargrove replies, leaning against him with enough strength that they nearly tumble down onto the floor - an enraged scream of _Careful the punch!_ making them stumble back, "Kin' Steve, we caaan't all smell like a flower _butt_."

Steve blinks.

"Just drink," he deadpans, tilting his cup against Hargrove's lips, more of it splashing against Hargroves face, between them on the ground and on their pants instead of landing in Hargrove's mouth.

Steve doesn't know how he ends up on the couch in an emptying living room with his old friends, Tommy lying half dead on his thigh and mumbling apologies - _S'sorry, bestfriends, miss u, jealous, bitch_ -, while Steve sooths him with awkward little pats to the top of his head. Snoozing, Carol lies curled up against her drunk boyfriend and Hargrove lazily smokes at the open window, cherry glowing red in the dark.

* * *

Steve knows D&D will be over soon, or at least as soon as Joyce comes back, which is why he steps outside for a quick smoke, never one to show this particularly bad habit to the kids. The rumble of the car is enough to make him freeze, zippo alight in his grip, the flickering flame reflected in his eyes, burning into his sight.

He just needs to move his head to light the cigarette dangling between his lips, but he can't. The pressure against his chest keeps his lungs compressed. Slowly, all too slowly, he raises his gaze to look at the blue Camaro screeching to a halt in the Byers' driveway.

His breath cuts short altogether when Hargrove steps out, blue tinted aviator glasses on his nose.

Someone grabs his wrist. Steve's eyes don't want to close, they remain wide enough to hurt. Hargrove takes a step closer, then stops, hands balling into fists at his side.

Slowly he raises his hand to his sunglasses, pulling them off.

His gaze is piercing but Steve's eyes get stuck to those knuckles. Steve can still remember them meeting his face again and again and again. The slick hurt haunts him like a malicious ghost.

"I'm... _fuck_ , look," Hargrove hisses, _spits_ , teeth flashing, "I'm sorry, Harrington,"

Hargrove's mouth stretches into a grimace, but those blue eyes can't quite look at him, shimmering with an anger, that Steve has never seen on Billy Hargrove's face before.

  
Maybe Billy's dreams are filled with blood slick fists as well.

**Author's Note:**

> ... and thus my journey as a writer in the ST fandom officially begins. I hope you enjoyed reading this little story.


End file.
